


How Long Have You Known

by BrosleCub12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epiphanies, Friendship, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Intense Conversations, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-13 06:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12977946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: In the aftermath of the events at Sherrinford, John starts to think.





	How Long Have You Known

**Author's Note:**

> So... a couple of weeks ago I decided to take on this challenge, courtesy of Watson's_Woes, as I haven't written any proper Sherlock fanfic that I've felt proud of for months and I wanted an opportunity to practise writing the boys again. It's been an interesting experience and I'm glad it's complete. It's more intense than I intended it to be but I've been considering John's character-development a lot in the latter seasons of Sherlock, particularly after Series 4 aired at the beginning of the year. And well - that became this. 
> 
> I am very grateful that this was diligently beta-read by the incomparable rachelindeed, fellow fan and patient friend. All remaining mistakes are mine; all constructive feedback is appreciated. As ever, I don't own Sherlock.

*

The question that John really wants to ask – the one that stays with him in the end, or rather creeps up on him when all else is said and done, when Eurus has been confined back in her cell, when he’s been treated and reunited with Rosie, when the Holmes parents understand what really became of their (frankly terrifying) daughter, when they’ve rebuilt 221B and have moved back in – is this:

What is so _important_ about him, really?

The memory of the gun, aimed at Sherlock’s own chin – and John’s own dull horror, _I am really going to lose him this time –_ after he aimed it at Mycroft and wouldn’t aim it at John at all; it keeps him awake at night, alongside feedings and soothing Rosie as she adapts to her new surroundings.

(Three days after they had rebuilt it, he turned up at the door with his suitcase, his baby and a sheepish expression. Sherlock had just smiled, kindly, that lovely tilt up on the corner of his lips that made him look, frankly, just wonderful and John had felt himself soothed and assured under that oddly gentle gaze. He was welcome – _is_ welcome here, after all – after everything. After blaming Sherlock for Mary’s death. After hitting Sherlock so hard he had to be hospitalised).

Recreating 221B, tending Rosie, keeping an eye on Sherlock - it all keeps him busy.

  
Then the nightmares begin.

*

They crawl up his veins at night, the images, tighten themselves around his nerves like coil. He sees Sherlock with the gun so many times – even counting down to calm himself before he sleeps brings back the memory of Sherlock, resigned and ready, voice echoing around that wretched room, slamming to the forefront of his mind. And he sees, in his sleep, Sherlock with the gun; Sherlock pointing the barrel at himself and then his face changing, shifter, becoming broader, rounder, topped by blonde hair almost grey and John’s looking at himself, Sherlock’s rumbled tones escaping his mirrored lips as they stare at each other.

He wrenches himself from those dreams, feeling as though he’s been flung from the rocks like the three unfortunate Garrideb brothers, it takes him a moment or two to remember that Mycroft is still alive. Shaken and off the radar, absent from his offices as he sorts out ‘family business,’ but alive.

Every night for three nights he soothes his roused daughter back to sleep and then doesn’t fall back to sleep himself, just lies and sweats and breathes, or tries to, in the dark. He doesn’t know if Sherlock knows; imagines, from the sideways glances his friend (and can John even call him his friend anymore, does he even have that right?) gives him, that Sherlock believes he’s been triggered by old memories, old fears and nightmares.

The silence should help.  

It doesn’t. 

*

John wakes from a fresh vision of Sherlock turning the gun on himself, before his face morphs from dark curly hair and silver eyes to a rounder face, eyes cutting blue – never knew he could look so angry.

(Is that what Sherlock saw? Is that what he saw in his face after Mary died; John’s all-compassing rage, willing to blame anyone else but himself?)

He stares at the ceiling that night for a long time – feels sick, lets his mind wander, his hands merge together.

‘Bloody hell,’ he mutters at the ceiling eventually; snatches up the baby monitor, sneaks down to the cold living room and puts a fire on. Glances towards Sherlock’s bedroom door, half-expecting a long-limbed, yawning detective to come forth grumbling and ruffling his curls.

But Sherlock doesn’t come out and the door stays closed. It occurs to John rather belatedly – just as all things seem to occur to him these days about Sherlock – that finding out the truth about your childhood friend being a boy, rather than a dog, and discovering that your equally-long-forgotten sister murdered him: well. It tends to do things to a man.  

 _It’s not all about you,_ he thinks, angry with Eurus and angrier with himself; stares into the flames with his fist over his mouth. 

This can’t go on.

*

He wants to ask the question so badly, but decides to wait until after they’ve laid Victor Trevor to rest and let the ground settle over his little coffin for a few days before asking. It’s difficult, but it’s all he can do. Sherlock needs him and so John stays as constant as he can, stands by his side at Victor’s funeral and watches, pride piercing his heart, as Sherlock delivers a truly wonderful tribute to his childhood Redbeard. Sherlock’s found the change visibly straining; he spent years believing in a dog, rather than a boy and he’s stopped himself once or twice while speaking about Victor. Even though he remembers him, how he looked and sounded and all the things they did together, at the same time John is certain that there are moments when he wants to mention long floppy ears, or a wagging tail, as opposed to a boy in an eyepatch.

She even took that away from him, he thinks furiously, recalling how affectionate, how open, Sherlock was with Toby the bloodhound, not even blaming him when he reached a dead end. The joy in his voice when Toby padded out onto the pavement; how he brought out something very real and very soft in Sherlock that John knew was there, but was rarely seen.  

That’s before he even considers the fact that Eurus Holmes murdered a child; that she abandoned him in a well and left him to die.   

Sherlock doesn’t falter, though. He tells the church about Victor, about all the hours they spent together reading _Treasure Island_ , and how when they played pirates, he never hit him with his sword, which makes the little congregation that’s gathered to pay their respects laugh a little. It makes John smile and makes him feel so sad; thinks of the way Sherlock plays with Rosie, always faithful, never impatient, all-adoring.

As though he’s trying to find the things he’s missed, he thinks with a jolt, as he throws a rose down onto Victor’s coffin, next to the small, black pirate hat with the skull-and-crossbones that Sherlock had placed into the grave just a moment before.

Victor never asked for this. Nor did Sherlock. But here they are. And Sherlock is quieter these days, thoughtful, withdrawn; just once or twice, he disappears for whole days at a time. John suspects he knows where he’s going, but he doesn’t like to pry. He doesn’t quite know the place he takes in Sherlock’s life, anymore, especially not now that Sherlock’s remembered his first friend and his mad little sister. But silence stretches in 221B these days, and despite Mary’s final, well-meaning DVD, things are _off._

‘What do you think?’ John asks Rosie finally over breakfast a few days later, when Sherlock is gone again. Rosie babbles nonsense, encouragement, maybe and he kisses the side of her head.

‘I think he likes you more than he likes me,’ he confides, and Rosie gives a little shriek, morally outraged or not, he can’t tell. John cuddles her close, kisses her cheek, glad for her presence and input, such as it is. Then he has to change her nappy.

The rest of the day he spends quietly, reading a book, glancing towards the window every now and then, gaze passing over the empty leather chair and waiting for Sherlock to come back.

*

He hovers that evening, heats up some tomato soup (Sherlock’s hair is ruffled from what can only be strong wind and his violin has been conspicuously absent), watches Sherlock chatter with Rosie. He lets her touch some of his mantlepiece decorations – not the skull though, that’s been put up high out of her eyeline, in case it frightens her.

He remembers the shape of Victor Trevor’s poor, tiny skull in his hands; dreams about that too, sometimes, about an imagined, high-pitched voice begging to be set free. He watches Rosie trace the paint of the yellow skull, Sherlock murmuring and explaining to her about zinc.

They’re up late that night, him and Sherlock, lounging on the sofa side-by-side and Rosie is sprawled across John’s chest, precious and sleepy. They’ve watched several episodes of _Sarah & Duck,_ all calmness and pastel colours and an incredibly soft-voiced narrator and it had been enough to send his daughter into a doze. John knows she’ll be awake at around two in the morning, knows he should put her in her cot. But it’s been a long and lonely road that’s led them here and he wants…he just wants _stillness_ for a while, wants to sit with his daughter and detective and just… be. Just for a moment. 

And it’s then he decides to ask; can’t put it off any longer. He presses the pause button on the remote, stops the DVD in the middle of Sarah having a very important conversation with Moon and feels Sherlock’s eyes, curious , upon him, and somewhat tired; almost changes his mind. 

If he changes it now, though, he’ll keep changing it. And that’s a horrifying prospect, and he was a soldier, so no.   

‘Everything alright?’ Sherlock rumbles and John flounders and then launches straight in.

‘Why didn’t you try for me?’ he asks, getting straight to the point. ‘Why didn’t you turn the gun on me? Instead of Mycroft?’ he amends hastily, because unfortunately there have been a couple of situations now with him, Sherlock and guns and doesn’t that just say _so much_ about the life they share.

He looks ahead because he’s not sure he wants to look directly into Sherlock’s face when he asks it. In any case, he’s fairly sure he can feel his friend stop breathing and yep, there goes the mood of the room.

He realises, very quickly, that he should’ve kept his mouth shut: Sherlock is rolling off the sofa, slowly, so slowly, like a boulder just descending the side of a mountain and he’s towering over John, his once-sprawled silken dressing-gown now curtained around him like a cloak and his eyes – his eyes, as wide and still and as shocked as icy windows.

‘It’s alright,’ John offers, trying to prevent the inevitable argument, trying to backtrack. ‘I just… I want to know.’ It’s not alright, though; he can tell from Sherlock’s face that it’s really not alright that he’s asked this. But he can’t… he won’t do the whole charade of _, ‘No, forget I asked, okay, it doesn’t matter.’_

Thing is: it does matter. And John’s sick of brushing all these things under the carpet.

‘Just… stay there,’ he orders and carefully, ever so carefully, shifts; lays Rosie down in her rocker by his feet, a present from the Stamfords. Miraculously – as though sensing that her father and godfather need to have this conversation and deciding to be courteous – she shifts, but doesn’t wake and after a moment, he is able to turn and focus his attention on Sherlock.

‘Please. I need you to tell me. Why didn’t you shoot me? I mean, I’m grateful,’ he gestures to Rosie. ‘But…’ He shrugs, helpless with the image of Sherlock with the gun, face set and fuming with preparation. ‘How could you even do that, Sherlock?’

Even as he says it, he feels hopeless: it’s Mycroft and it’s Sherlock and John has been watching them bicker for years, tried to unravel the constant hostility that seems to spur them on, more than anything – watched silently as Sherlock rattles off little facts about Mycroft that no-one else knows and bore it with dignity when Mycroft kidnapped him on the first night, because he worries constantly. 

Mycroft, after all, for all his lies, for all his interference, his threats… well.  He’s Mycroft. There’s no denying the fact that he’s always had Sherlock’s back, no matter how terrifying he may be. And yet, if there was anything in the way of Mycroft that John would ever find remotely intimidating, it’s this: the memory of the man’s expression when he was faced with the gun in his younger brother’s hands, expression contrite, understanding, resigned.  Even more terrifying: that code of conduct between him and Sherlock, the knowing glances between them, the apparent understanding that Sherlock wouldn’t go the other way, wouldn’t choose the other option _._  

Sherlock is still looking at John with that expression, a mix of utterly stunned and faintly horrified – buffering – and John quickly realises he needs to take charge of this situation, or else Sherlock will be standing there silently all night. And John has got to make this right.

‘No, no,’ he clicks his fingers. ‘Come on, come back to me, Sherlock. None of that. Please,’ he throws that out there belatedly because, well. This is Sherlock and Sherlock’s needs and John hasn’t said that enough, recently. ‘Please. Stay with me.’

Sherlock promptly comes back to himself and he narrows his eyes at John, squinting at him as though unable to believe the man is serious. John holds his gaze and his tongue.

‘John,’ Sherlock’s voice is a warning siren, low and steady. ‘Don’t you ever say that to me, ever again.’

It’s unexpected, extremely angry, like a soft sea bristling right before the storm. John braces himself and realises he’s faintly frightened. ‘Sherlock.’

‘No, John.’

‘I was ready,’ John stands up - reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder that Sherlock veers away from, retreating from John as though he’s some strange animal. ‘Sherlock. I was ready. You could’ve –’

Sherlock’s voice is like escaping steam. ‘You’re my _friend.’_

‘I – yeah, I know,’ John flounders. ‘But. Mycroft...’ _Honey for tea,_ Mycroft’s voice purrs in his head. The footage that he and Sherlock had whipped through before they snuck it onto Mycroft’s film; John had floundered at the way little Sherlock’s arms had wrapped themselves around an adorably-chubby (yes, _adorably)_ preteen Mycroft’s shoulders, unapologetically tender and loving. There had been no time to tease though; they’d been left with a very short window of time before the older Holmes brother returned and had quickly resumed their task of making him wail for mercy.

And they’d thought they were being so clever.

‘Sherlock, you could’ve tried,’ he tells him and is absolutely startled to realise: he means it. ‘I told you, it would’ve been fine – ‘

‘No, it wouldn’t!’ Sherlock bellows and that does the trick; there’s a horrified second of silence and then Rosie’s wailing in her rocker. John frowns at Sherlock, more annoyed than anything – of all the things he could be feeling, it’s annoyed – and picks her up with a few shushing gestures. Rosie hiccups into his shoulder and Sherlock’s face falls; he hates it when Rosie cries. He hates, even more, being the one to make Rosie cry.

‘This is why,’ he murmurs, watching John rock her up and down. ‘John. Rosie needs her father.’

‘No.’ John shakes his head. ‘I mean – yes. But that’s not all.’ At Sherlock’s outraged blink, he adds, ‘I know she needs me, but. This is your brother, Sherlock, and I know you’ve – there’s history there, I know that, and it’s probably his fault as much as anything. But he does care about you,’ he adds, more quietly. ‘So – what’s so important about me, that you’d choose me over him?’

Sherlock simply glares at him, visibly breathing through his mouth. ‘Don’t you dare insult both your intelligence and mine by making me answer that.’

‘I need to know if…’ John’s voice trails off and he shrugs, helpless. ‘Look, just, stay there,’ he pleads, trying to focus on soothing Rosie, who’s still grizzling. Sherlock huffs, then reaches out to cup Rosie’s head with his hand, rubs his palm over it a few times in a soothing motion.

‘It’s alright,’ he whispers, voice lowered drastically, softened by her tears, as John continues to rock her, ‘it’s alright, Watson, it’s okay. I’m sorry; that was a bit loud, wasn’t it?’

‘Hm?’ John hums encouraging sounds in his ear; Rosie, chewing on her hand, gradually quietens and John, holding her steady, can’t fail to miss the way her eyes settle on Sherlock, lingering, interested, before they start to flutter shut again and she dozes back off, drooling on John’s cardigan. Something lifts Sherlock’s mouth briefly, but it’s gone by the time John glances his way.

There’s a very unproductive pause in which they both watch her sleep and then John bites his lip, lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock’s.

‘This isn’t going to distract us from this conversation, you know,’ he tells him, as gently as he can. Sherlock’s head juts to one side; a huff escapes his mouth. ‘I’m serious. You know, Eurus saved you? It’s mad, but – she saved you, Sherlock. She stopped you. And that’s honestly the only thing I’m grateful to her for right now.’ He hesitates, wonders if that’s hypocritical coming from the man who swapped flirty texts with the woman (with Mycroft and Sherlock’s sister – _bloody hell)_ and if Sherlock will, somehow, take insult. After all – she is his sister.

‘Mycroft was ready,’ Sherlock is saying, slowly and clearly, undercut by impatience, as though he’s explaining to one of John’s irate patient why the doctor’s surgery isn’t open on weekends.  ‘He’s always understood his life and employment carry an element of risk, so–’

John protests. ‘He’s still your – ‘

‘I _know_ he’s my brother, you complete idiot,’ Sherlock snarls, then with another glance at Rosie, shifting in her sleep, sharply gestures with his head and John follows him through to the kitchen, praying they won’t start throwing plates at each other.

As soon as the door is shut, Sherlock rounds on him.

‘Mycroft has always been prepared to die,’ he tells him, ‘He made a will years ago – I know this, because he’s cut me out of it twice, unless I stay off my little habit and he plans on leaving me Uncle Rudy’s hideous hand-me-down collection of decorated cat-plates, just to annoy me.’ He looks repelled; John feels a rush of not exactly sympathy for Mycroft, not for all his deceit, but definitely something like gratitude, that Mycroft would do everything he could to keep Sherlock off the drugs.

(And the plate thing is pretty funny, he can’t deny it).

‘You, on the other hand,’ Sherlock is relentless, pushing his way through the conversation and John tenses, ‘You have a child, John and you have endured enough. You didn’t survive Afghanistan to die at my hands and I would never do anything like that.’ The way he says it sounds as if he’s ripping the underside off something, slowly and painfully but willing, all the same. John’s gratitude increases; it’s stupid, but John can’t help it. His voice feels croaky when he tries to talk.

‘You didn’t survive getting shot to do that to yourself either, Sherlock.’ As soon as he’s said it, he’s surprised. It’s a brutal reminder; no-one ever brought up Mary’s actions ever again, no-one ever mentioned it, until the night on that aquarium floor when Mary used her last breaths to gasp out that desperate, final apology.  

‘It was _my_ round,’ Sherlock argues. ‘And _I_ decide how it goes.’ It’s impertinent, fuming; the need to take control clear under every word, just as he did when he marched off for two years under the guise of being dead. Bloody hell, John wants to throttle him.   

When has he _ever_ given Sherlock the impression that his life is sacrosanct? John was a soldier, for crying out loud; he’s been shot, he’s been strapped to a bomb, he’s spent nights in back allies and on rooftops, prepared to shoot the people shooting at Sherlock, ever-accepting of that possibility: _tonight’s the night you could die._

And with a look at Sherlock: _if you die protecting him, it’ll be worth it._

‘That never,’ John points his index finger right in Sherlock’s face, ‘ever justifies what you tried to do the other night, Sherlock. Never. Not even for me. And Mary wouldn’t – ‘

He cuts himself off, swallows, sighs at the wince, the look on Sherlock’s face. He hates this; hates bringing his wife into it, because of course Mary gave her life for Sherlock, bravely and willingly, without being asked. And she’d never –

John’s thoughts crash into a wall like a freight-train. Mary did. She had. Mary had left instructions for Sherlock specifically to put himself in harm’s way. 

 _Wasn’t shooting him enough?_ John had thought – still thinks now, something he can’t quite shake off no matter how hard he tries, feels like a betrayal to his late wife. But Mary _had_ – and Sherlock have followed through with it, after she herself had landed him on the operating table.   

John swallows and fingers his ring, all the fight suddenly gone out of him. Sherlock watches him slump down at his seat at the table; pulls out his own chair, just as if they’re at breakfast, crosses his hands, watches him with a cross between curious and concerned. It should feel startling, but after a few days of silence, it makes John feel oddly safe.

‘Why do you keep doing this?’ he asks finally, still moving his wedding-ring around his finger. He thinks of that unpolished wedding ring from years ago, on that first night in an old house in Brixton, of its clean inside surface, the exposed belly of the reality of Jennifer Wilson’s marriage there for those who bothered to see it.

Sherlock hadn’t seen it when John had done it – or tried to do it, consider it. Any fading kind of suspicion – or hope – that John had held that Sherlock perhaps already knew about it had been felled at the sheer shock in that sharp expression when John told him. Hadn’t been expecting that, had you, John thought sadly. Somehow, that’s the thing he’s ashamed of most of all.

And Sherlock had forgiven him – like he always does. Like he forgave Mary, too.

‘What, John?’ Sherlock asks, more curious that contemptuous now and John meets his eyes slowly.

‘This,’ he spreads his hands wide on the table between them, ‘everything. Saving John Watson,’ he recites his wife’s words like a mantra and Sherlock stares at him for a long, long moment.

Then he gets to his feet and marches out of the kitchen and a few seconds later his door shuts with a firm click.

If Rosie weren’t here and liable to wake again, John is sure it would have been a slam.

*

He doesn’t sleep that night; sits in the lounge, thinking, wondering. Sherlock has a right to be angry – he’s endured trauma, come out on the other side shaken, but alive; ensured that everyone else also came out alive. And John, well... he had kind of hoped that they had sorted  everything out.

Except.

 _Save John Watson,_ Mary’s voice is ordering, determined, not to be refused and promising merry hell if she is. John parses on the image; he’d always liked that about Mary, once, her steadfastness and her confidence.

He’s never asked Sherlock why he had just blindly done as Mary had told him; why he had got himself high on drugs again, as part of a coup to lure John out and face up against Culverton Smith. But he had done it and John had saved Sherlock’s life and things had just… picked up, he supposes.

And then he realises, with a dull thud of stones falling into his stomach:

He had never asked Sherlock _why_ he had shot Charles Augustus Magnussen either. Why he had done that to keep Mary safe.

To keep John safe, in turn.

There had been an arrest and a week of separation and a strained goodbye on the airfield and _look how you care about John Watson…_ Magnussen’s voice, curling around his name like smoke, Sherlock’s recorded howls in the background a sharp contrast.

He had never asked.

He had _never_ asked.  

 _You didn’t ask about what he did during his time away either, did you?_ The voice that mutters it sounds far too much like Mary, the kind of thing she would think of that he never does. John grasps his knees painfully tight.  
He had – in a way, he _had._ Sort of. Maybe. He had seen scars on Sherlock’s body in the hospital, other scars beside the single bullet-hole that Mary had put in him and some were faded, some… less so.  

 _Where did you get these?_ he had asked and Sherlock had grunted, muttered a few words about Serbians taking issue with him even more than John did and then he had fallen asleep in the hospital bad. And it had never been mentioned again – John had thought, believed, that Sherlock had never wanted to talk about it. More to the point, he didn’t want to think about it – didn’t want to contemplate that sad, grey year after Barts, the getting hammered on the first anniversary, the missing Sherlock in his everyday life; knowing after all that, that Sherlock was alive, just far away. Hadn’t wanted to dwell on that, so had never pressed and they had just got on with the present.    

_Look how you care._

… And suddenly, just like that, all John can see, all over again, is Sherlock’s body on the ground outside Barts. Magnussen’s body on the floor at Appledore. Sherlock under John’s own fists at the hospital, spitting blood, grunting from blow after blow after blow –

He swallows wetly – nearly gags. Feels his throat constrict, gets up, staggers on his heel and rushes blindly to the bathroom, collapses in front of the toilet and heaves, brings up what little he realises he’s eaten this afternoon.  

 _P_ _ressure-point_ , Magnussen’s voice whispers, rattling right in his ear. _Pressure-point to pressure-point to pressure-point._    

Sherlock had pulled John out of that bonfire two years ago with only his gloves. God, that must have bloody hurt. That must have really hurt. Had anybody treated them? Had Mummy Holmes or Mrs Hudson tended them, soothed them? John doesn’t know – but then John had never _asked,_ had he?

He had never sodding asked.  

 _Bloody hell._ He collapses against the porcelain bowl. _Bloody, bloody, bloody hell._

‘John.’

Sherlock is there – he didn’t even hear Sherlock come in – and he’s kneeling down next to him, placing his hand is on John’s back and he’s rubbing gentle circles.

‘John, it’s alright. You don’t have to be like this.’

They kneel there together on the cold tile of the bathroom; finally, John nods, shaken, wipes his mouth, the last drop of drooling bile from his lips and with Sherlock’s help, staggers to his feet, shaking violently; doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop shaking at the prospect of a never ending furious flash that is Sherlock, taking on the world to keep John safe.

Who’s now here, picking John off up the bathroom floor, voice low and calm and gentle and assuring him, like a fact, that it’s going to be okay.

They don’t look at each other as John leans heavily against the sink, brushes his teeth thoroughly, spits and rinses and runs mouthwash over his tongue. When he’s done, it’s to see a rather…well. A rather worried-looking Sherlock, arms folded yet still somehow faintly annoyed. John gives him a weak smile and then finally accepts the hand that’s offered to him.

‘I’ll bring the baby monitor,’ Sherlock offers. John nods and lets himself be led.

*

‘You stayed,’ Sherlock tells the mantlepiece, standing and leaning against it, almost not daring to look at John, sitting in his chair and watching him closely, Rosie sleeping nearby. ‘No-one ever stayed before you, John and even when I said some… things and I did things, you still came back to me.’

‘I was an arsehole,’ John gets to his feet, clenches his fists together and Sherlock is startled out of himself. ‘I was. I am, Sherlock,’ he says the three words with a little shake of the head, with as little embarrassment as possible, because it’s true, ‘And I blamed you for Mary’s death after I cheated on her and that’s just… that’s unforgivable, Sherlock.’

‘Maybe you ought to work on forgiving yourself,’ Sherlock tells him quietly and that does make John smile, genuinely, that familiar mantra he recognises hooking up the corners of his mouth.

‘Ella?’

‘Mm, maybe,’ Sherlock is deliberately nonchalant, wiping imaginary dust from the mantlepiece with a long finger. John wanders closer to watch him; wants to say something else, but everything he’s thinking of right now feels like some kind of excuse, a flimsy attempt to pardon his behaviour.

‘I’m really not sure what to do, Sherlock,’ he admits finally, the closest to asking for help that he can manage; the best way to ask Sherlock how he can make this right.

Sherlock seems to parse that and John braces himself, not sure what to expect - but all Sherlock does is turn around and take John into his arms. He blinks _– oh, hello –_ and rests his head against Sherlock’s chest, reaches up almost on automatic to grip his shoulders. Alright, then. Sherlock’s body is a solid weight against his and he bites his lip, runs his hands up and down his forearms just a bit, tentatively.

‘You’re my best friend,’ Sherlock murmurs into his hair finally and John swallows hard, nods into his shoulder; he knows, he knows, of _course_ he knows. ‘And I never knew what that was like, because I forgot that I ever had one to begin with – the possibility seemed invalid. It was you who brought that back, John. You _liked_ me.’ 

 _Oh, Sherlock…_ John presses his face, his mouth into his shoulder and holds him impossibly tighter.    

‘I _still_ like you,’ he assures, like they’re children, wonders if it’s something Victor Trevor said once upon a time, to William Sherlock Scott Holmes. ‘And I’m glad I came back.’ It’s not a lot to offer, not when he was the one who sent the spiteful letter to Sherlock in the first place, needing a target for his grief and piling it all, without justification or fairness, on his best friend’s shoulders, but Sherlock just hums and doesn’t comment.

‘Mycroft really didn’t mean it,’ he says instead, sounding as though he’s attempting to be kind, and John wonders about that, looks at the opposite wall over his shoulder at the skull. Remembers a certain kind of anger in Mycroft’s face that night he put Sherlock in hospital: a very real, very subtle warning that had only been interrupted by the reveal of Mary’s message: _after we’ve scoured this flat, I’m dealing with you next_. John is still convinced that it was his running back to the hospital to save Sherlock from Culverton Smith that saved him from a lifetime of imprisonment in the Tower.

‘I think he did.’ He rubs Sherlock’s back to show it doesn’t make any difference; even though, even now, he’s not sure he’s completely escaped the Big Brother’s eye. In fact, he wonders if there will be a day when he has to repay the debt he feels he owes Mycroft.

But then, with Sherlock here in his arms, he considers that maybe he already is. Not that it’s a bad one, mind.

‘He’s been looking after you all your life,’ he huffs finally, sadly. ‘I saw you both on that footage, Sherlock; he’s always loved you.’ He wonders if Sherlock will be repelled by that but to his surprise, Sherlock nods.

‘Yes. And that was why he didn’t want me to shoot you.’ A pause. ‘He knew it would hurt too much.’

And there it is, simple as and _that_ hurts, the raw truth of it and John squeezes his eyes shut.

‘I think he was also trying to make up for his lies,’ Sherlock presses on then, attempting to sound a little more practical and John nods; that makes sense, he realises. That makes an awful lot of sense. After all, why would Mycroft, alone in the knowledge that Eurus took away one of Sherlock’s best friends, allow her to do away with the other? 

It shouldn’t make John feel better, but it does, just a bit. And on the heel of that is the thought, the instruction to himself: _do better. Do better, you stupid, ungrateful git._  

 ‘I made the right choice,’ he tells him now, stepping back and Sherlock raises his eyebrows _– Hm?_ – and John blinks, fiddles with Sherlock’s dressing gown collar at random, straightening it.   

‘That little girl,’ he murmurs and then stops himself. Not a little girl – not someone just a few years older than his Rosie. Eurus Holmes, the secret sister who managed to be even more pretentious than Sherlock, in some kind of… bizarre character play, reaching out to her brothers for help, for understanding, and now carries so much blood on her hands as a result. And Sherlock, gentle-voiced and kind, _Tell me, I will help you,_ walking her through it, keeping her calm. Reaching out.  

 ‘I was watching you talk to her – to Eurus when she – well, you know – and I was thinking – I got it right when I made you Rosie’s godfather.’ He makes himself look into Sherlock’s eyes as he says it because it’s true, because he had stared at Sherlock as the man spoke soothingly into the speakers and remembered, suddenly, the first time Sherlock had held Rosie:   

Mary, mischievous and with a plan up her sleeve, passed Rosie over to Sherlock and his arms, his hands, raced to hold her, something like blind panic passing over his face as he held her fast for dear life without any of the expected _oh no thank you, I don’t want that, take it back,_ grasped her awkwardly instead. Mary, taking pity, helped him adjust and he ended up standing there, rocking her against his chest, looking completely displaced, like a massive stork who had not yet completed its training.

John, sleep-deprived and finding everything hilarious, had howled with laughter.

Yet there had been something in Sherlock’s face; the way his eyes settled on Rosie, his mouth forming a thoughtful line. Concentrating; intent; not disgusted, as John feared. And even as Sherlock started to rock his arms, almost unconsciously, his eyes had not left Rosie’s face and she had not cried.

Now, he holds her when John is sleeping and holds the nappy bags while they’re changing her and heats up the milk.  

 _Take Rosie, Sherlock,_ he had wanted to say, in those last few moments as the water rose to meet him. _Take her and look after her. I know you love her, the way you smile at her is the best thing in the world and I’ll sink here, knowing she’s protected._

‘You’re the best man for the job,’ he assures Sherlock, who visibly attempts not to preen under the praise, ‘And…’ He clears his throat, wills himself to keep eye contact, ‘if it’s alright with you, Sherlock, I thought, maybe – given everything that’s happened; you’d consider being named in my will. As Rosie’s legal guardian. In case anything ever happens to me.’

Sherlock looks as if he’s been struck and John is about to rewind, retract, tell him to forget it because of course, of course Sherlock wouldn’t want to be a sole guardian to a kid who’s not even his own, it’s too much, too far beyond Sherlock’s comfort zone –

‘Sure?’ Sherlock manages, looking overcome, brow furrowed not with horror, but with genuine surprise and John realises he’s underestimated the man yet again.

‘Hundred percent,’ he manages; Sherlock raises his eyebrows. ‘Well – ninety,’ he adds lightly, with a chuckle to show he’s only joking and Sherlock grins a little, tentative. ‘Seriously, though, Sherlock. You don’t have to do it, but you’re my first choice. You’re so good with her, to her. I know she’d be safe.’

‘With me?’ Sherlock asks softly.

‘You’ve kept me safe since day one,’ John informs him calmly, ‘so yeah, I think she’d be fine.’

Sherlock leans against the mantlepiece, heavily, considering.  
‘Children… they don’t seem scared of me,’ he says it in a rush. ‘The children we meet, they never – have you noticed that, John? They never seem afraid. Yet all the children I met when I was that age, they all – they didn’t like me very much,’ he admits. ‘They ran away from me.’

‘Not all of them,’ John chides gently. ‘Definitely not Victor Trevor. And not Archie, he thinks you’re cool. And not Rosie,’ he assures; Sherlock may act like a monster, but if he is, if John is truly honest, then it’ll only be the kind that allies himself with the human-race; who’ll snarl back, provoked and protective, against the monsters that Rosie may get in her nightmares, or that she might one day believe are under her bed, in the corners of her bedroom. Sherlock will only ever need to switch the light on.

‘She’s still getting used to me,’ Sherlock points out quietly and John holds his hand up.

‘That’s my fault,’ he admits guiltily, trying to sound soothing all the same. ‘I’m the one who wouldn’t let you see her. I did that, Sherlock, I took her away from you. And that was bad, and I’ll never be able to take any of that back. But you’ve still got all the time in the world to get to know each other again.’

Sherlock smiles at the prospect, a huge, happy smile and it makes John feel so happy in turn to see it. He reaches out to ruffle Sherlock’s hair, squeezes his neck. _You’re one of us._ Remembers Sherlock’s voice – _that’s why he stays_ – angry and protective, thrown at his brother like a cannonball.

'Will you think about it?' he asks, not wanting to add any pressure and Sherlock reflects, purses his lips, finally gives a slow nod.

‘We should… talk about the particulars,’ he mulls, ‘but… alright. Not that I expect any harm to come to you any time soon,’ he adds, sounding stern, maybe even a little worried at the prospect and John tries not to feel incredibly touched, but does.

‘Okay, scout’s honour.’ No need for Sherlock to throw himself off anything else or ingest himself with anything else because he believes John might be in danger and anyway, put simply, John won’t have it. ‘And yeah, we’ll talk about it. But…’ He trails off, thinks about what he wants to say – what he really wants to say.

‘Sherlock,’ he bites his teeth together, knows the way he says his friend’s name stills him. ‘I think – look, I’m going back to Ella next week, now she’s stopped seeing you; I need to,’ he clasps his hands together. ‘I’ve got – I need to work through this, for, for Rosie’s sake. And I think… You and I also really need to talk about some of the other stuff – all of it, even. Properly,’ he adds, as Sherlock widens his eyes at him and John knows, the prospect of ripping away the lining they’re walking along, that they’re basing their relationship on right now, breaking the seemingly calm surface of the water to dive beneath isn’t a pleasant one –

But John can’t – he just _can’t –_ have Sherlock putting himself in harm’s way anymore because he thinks it’s the right thing to do.

‘Okay…’ Sherlock sounds as though someone’s offered him – well. Something suitably awkward, John can’t really think of anything right now, but then it is Sherlock, after all. He just shrugs.

‘I’ll do anything you need me to do,’ he tells him, honest, honest as he can be because he’s getting sick of lying, or being someone who keeps secrets. ‘Even if it’s moving out to give you some space – no, no,’ he adds, holding up a palm as Sherlock makes to violently protest. ‘I’m just saying…’ he comes up short, memory tickling his mind and finds himself rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Whatever you want – it’s all fine. Just – tell me,’ he concludes feeble, but determined to _just get this right,_ ‘what you need from me and I’ll try my best to make it happen.’ It’s all he can do, all he can give; not a clean slate, because _too much_ has happened and if he pretends it hasn’t, then he’s no better than Harry, or his father.

He watches Sherlock’s face as he says it, feeling his face colour itself unpleasantly warm. It’s actually almost a relief when Sherlock tilts his head, shifting his gaze to tap the mantlepiece, clearly considering things.

‘Time,’ he replies finally, swiftly, simply. ‘Just… give me time, John. Would that be alright?’ Something in his face eases as John smiles and nods, filled with a kind of relief. He’s still not sure if it’s something he deserves, but the sooner he acknowledges that the better, and maybe he can build on that. He can get the hell on with it; try, at the very least. He owes Sherlock that much.

‘That sounds good,’ he yawns the words, drained, his head feeling emptied of whatever heavy something heavy he was carrying around inside it. Battle-lines standing down, a peaceful treaty written up and that feels like enough for now.

Plus, Sherlock still seems to want him around and that’s a bit extremely good.

‘Come on,’ he gestures to Sherlock, suddenly remarkably, gloriously sleepy. ‘Let’s get back to bed.’

*

Christmas Eve is a sleepy affair, with lights twinkling in every corner of the lounge and even a large tree, albeit fake for the sake of Rosie. It’s the new 221B lounge’s debut and somehow the flashing colours reflect the changes, the slight differences in the wallpaper, the recreations of Sherlock’s old experiments, the smiley face back on the wall. Rosie, just learning to walk, had enjoyed sitting at the bottom of the tree and pulling off the baubles that John and Mrs Hudson had been busy putting on, entranced by the glittering lights and golden balls. Sherlock had finally scooped her up and taken her off to the park to look at dogs.

At eight, after putting Rosie to sleep, John nudges Sherlock from his chair with instructions to help him finish Rosie’s stocking. Sherlock, unpleasantly full from their Christmas Eve carbonara, groans and staggers to his feet.

‘Honestly, John, she won’t remember this, you can get away with it for another couple of years,’ he moans, even as he helps wrap bows, socks and a cuddly version of Duck from _Sarah & Duck_. There’s even a little _Peppa Pig_ merchandise in there (John hates that bratty little piglet and everything she stands for with intense passion, but hopefully Rosie will have grown out of it by the time she’s about five or six. Hopefully).  

‘I want to do it properly,’ John snaps; part of him is aware he’s kidding himself, but the idea of Rosie not waking up with a full stocking just… breaks his heart a little. He’s not sure why, wonders if he’s trying to bribe her somehow, make up for the fact that she doesn’t have a mother anymore. But he’s a dad and he wants to and anyway, it’s another opportunity as much as anything. 

‘Do you want to tell me something else about your time away?’ he asks as they wrap, what’s become a mandatory question during moments like these and Sherlock does, tells him about his time up in the Buddhist monastery and a drug-smuggler who attempted to stab him for his efforts in exposing her. He waves around the Duck toy, using it to recreate, for John’s benefit, several of the Buddhist’s best moves in the ensuing fight; Duck is made to thoroughly beat up the small, soft Peppa Pig toy that was Mrs Hudson’s own stocking contribution. John watches and listens with a half-smile and a slightly sunken heart and knows this isn’t the worst of Sherlock’s memories by far. 

Still. He’s asking and Sherlock’s talking, telling him what he feels ready to tell him and it continues to unfold, slowly, slowly. 

They’re getting there. Step by step, they’re getting there.

They sneak into Rosie’s room and hang the bulging stocking over one of the corners of the cot and gaze at each other in the knowledge of a job well done. Sherlock lingers, peeks over the cot just to look at Rosie, the expression on his face affectionate and open, even just by the shade of Rosie’s nightlight.  

John decides then and there to make Sherlock Holmes laugh as much as possible – to put as many smiles as he can on that remarkable man’s face for the rest of his life, after he caused so much of the opposite. 

They collapse together on the sofa and watch the _Doctor Who_ Christmas special from 2010 with Matt Smith and all the fish, both leaning against each other as they drift in and out of sleep.

‘You okay?’ John checks, somewhere along the way, over the sound of Katherine Jenkins’ beautiful singing (don’t ask him how she got into the episode, he’s not quite sure where she came from). He folds his arms and shifts his head to inspect Sherlock, whose eyes are half-lidded as he nods, looking perfectly peaceful next to him, safe and whole.

 _I’m home,_ John thinks, and with that thought, with Rosie’s baby-monitor on the coffee-table and the warmth of the best and wisest and kindest man he has ever known by his side, he lets himself drift off, the Christmas baubles shimmering under the flickering lights of the lounge, every last one like a beacon that lulls him to rest.

*


End file.
